There is no sunrise this morning;
instead, a stealthy fog blurring
earth and sky, a sweet communion.
New spring's tentative efforts
Have a Feininger delicacy.
What a gentle day!
A tangle of near branches
against the distant mist are outlines
of our intent, sketchy plans
of work to be done, hopes extended,
dreams to be realized. But no hurry.
We stir our soul to wake up
while Impressionist softness
hovers over the hills.
All cars are grey, moving slowly,
people walking on the hazy street
bend cautiously, steps at a reflective pace.
All peaceable things are possible;
fears of cold indifference
from our leaders have dissipated.
War, aggression, terrorism
are words the encompassing fog obscures.
Only when the whisper of mist evanesces
will we see the graphic realism: Billions
for bombs, for vengeance,
though we can't quite find our enemy
and children hunger and die
and justice lives alongside
those with power while
the little people -- Stop!
Spring has come! Meandering mists
shroud the city in an illusion
of gentleness and peace. Who knows
when we will be so lucky again?
July 3, 2003